Bring back Santa’s pipe…before it’s too late!

I never thought much about Santa smoking a pipe in Clement Moore’s 1823 poem, “Twas the Night Before Christmas,” but now that a new edition of the poem has taken his pipe away, I think I miss it.

Would somebody please give Santa his pipe back? I don’t want him rummaging through my cabinets, frantically trying to find some tobacco for a post sugar-cookie nicotine fix.

Here’s the skinny on Santa and his pipe: It seems self-published Canadian author Pamela McColl decided children and parents should be protected from images of smoking. So she mortgaged her house and sank $200,000 into publishing and promoting her version of Moore’s classic poem. “Wouldn’t it be sad if we saw a poem that’s so incredibly influential in our celebration of Christmas cast aside because we didn’t make a simple edit and took out a simple verse that’s offensive to modern children?” she asked.

In order to make Santa less “offensive,” the pipe had to go. Out went the lines, “The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth/and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.” Then McColl hired an illustrator to redraw a sanitized Santa without that protruding pipe and tobacco swirl of smoke encircling his head. Finally, she made it read like it was Santa’s decision to go tobacco free: "Edited by Santa Claus for the benefit of children of the 21st century," she added to the book’s cover.

I don’t miss Santa’s pipe because I long for a smoke. I never was very good at that anyway, although I do admit that during graduate school I smoked a pipe for a brief period of time---at least long enough for someone (Santa himself?) to give me a pipe one Christmas. Cradling that pipe in my hand, I felt like Santa and I had bonded. The trouble was I spent more time tamping on the tobacco and relighting the darn thing than I did studying, and besides, the librarian frowned on the presence of a pipe, even an unlit one, on her terrain.

So I gave it up rather easily.

Now, my granddad, whom we affectionately called, “Pappy,” knew how to use tobacco. He could spit with the best of them, and his “nasty little habit,” as Grandmother called it,  made finding him a Christmas present all the more easy and uncomplicated. One single trip to the grocery store for a box of Top chewing tobacco, and we were done. I loved breathing in the pungent tobacco odor before surrendering the box to mom for wrapping. It was plug tobacco because, according to Pappy, “anything else has additives in it and that makes it something entirely different than baccy.”

I don’t know what brand of pipe “baccy” Clement Moore gave Santa, but why have these insensitive moderns chosen Christmas as the time to break him of a gentle smoke? I just hope he doesn’t let his nervous, sweating, shaking, nicotine needy hands grab his whip and in a fit of frustration start relentlessly popping Dasher, Dancer, Donner, and Blitzen.

And what about these “modern children” who are supposedly offended by Santa’s only vice? (Well, the only vice I know of.) What if Santa caves under pressure: “Enough already! I’m done! Get your own presents, I’m sitting down for some alone time with my pipe.”

I’m not the only one who’s calling for a return of Santa’s pipe. Deborah Caldwell-Stone, the American Library Association’s deputy director for intellectual freedom likens the new version of “Twas the Night Before Christmas,” to Alan Gribben’s recently edited versions of “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” and “Tom Sawyer,” which replaced the 200 or so occurrences of the “N” word with “slave.” Said Caldwell-Stone: "This was presenting the original but censoring the content. That kind of expurgation that seeks to prevent others from knowing the original work because of a disapproval of the ideas, the content, is a kind of censorship that we've always disapproved of."

Removing Santa’s pipe, involves the “altering of a classic work of literature with a view toward protecting modern sensibilities, or preventing children from being aware of the character of the original work," Caldwell-Stone concluded.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Ms. McColl. I say if Santa needs a makeover, why stop with the pipe? Put him on the treadmill, trim that beard, slap some contact lens on him, and replace the sugar cookies with low fat yogurt.

But then we wouldn’t recognize him, would we? Santa wouldn’t be Santa.

Santa, I’m with you. I miss your pipe, too, and I’ll do my part to get it back.

Just remember me when you shimmy down my chimney.

Is it someone important or just family?

“Is someone important arriving here, or are people just waiting for family?”

Before I could answer the man, the lady standing next to me in the airport terminal said in a voice loud enough for everyone around us to hear, “Family IS important!”

I stepped back, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire of a potential verbal volley, but then the questioner submissively lowered his head and silently trudged toward the baggage claim. The lady pulled the front of her coat closer together while simultaneously raising her chin in a gesture of triumphal indignation.

I felt a tinge of sympathy for the guy because I too have asked the wrong question and been embarrassed by what I said. But I knew that lady had him dead to rights.

In a matter of moments both would disappear in the pre-Christmas airport crowd because my eyes were riveted toward one person: my daughter.

Most of us have at least momentarily lapsed into an all too casual familiarity with the wonder of our family. Why shouldn’t we respond to their arrival like they are celebrities? Who could be more significant than family?

As I escorted my celebrity to the baggage claim, I couldn't help but think about the return trip when I would be checking the departure flights and not the arrivals. The thought hung over my happy moment like a black cloud waiting in the distance.

Because family is important, it can bring us unspeakable joy as well as unbearable pain. Some set the family dinner table during the holidays dreading another visit from the one who always seems to find a way to ruin it for everyone else. Others are staring at a mate they no longer know, while some are wondering if that child will ever get it together, and others would be elated if the kid would simply come home. And then others, their insides torn by an aching absence, can do nothing but stare at the place where he or she used to sit.

If we dwell on it, we are likely to limp into the New Year in a melancholic mood that invites more somber thoughts into our home than we have emotional rooms to accommodate.

How do we keep the possibility of sorrow from dominating our future?

“I’ve learned to lock the door behind me and move on,” a lady I admire told me the other day when I asked her the secret of her refreshingly positive attitude. Now in her late 80s, she relishes the good life she’s lived, but I know she’s also endured plenty of twists and turns, bumps and bruises; life has not always been easy for her. Her only child was tragically killed in a car accident years ago, and now her husband is no longer able to take care of himself. Sometimes he is aware; most of the time he is not. He frequently stares blankly at me when she is not there to help him remember who I am.

She looks up at me from her chair beside her husband’s bed. And as always, her smile is soft and gentle, and her eyes tingle with the look of someone who has just received an unexpected gift.

“When we left our winter home in Florida for the last time,” she tells me as she reminisces of former days, “I knew the best thing to do was lock the doors behind me and look for new ones to open, and take each new room as the gift it is.”

Not a bad way to face each day of the New Year or any day of any year.

Glancing back at her as I leave her husband’s room, she remains in her seat, patiently keeping vigil at his side, and I can almost hear the man back at the airport, “Is there someone important you’re waiting on, or is it just family?”

I have a feeling she would say, “Both.”

Amid grief over a tragedy, can we talk?

I used to work with someone who would on rare occasions step into my office and ask, “Can we talk?” I immediately knew something was seriously amiss and therefore needed to be addressed in order to avoid potentially disastrous consequences.

One of those moments has come for our nation. We seemed to have avoided the discussion after the 13 were killed at Columbine in 1999, and the 32 at Virginia Tech in 2007, and the 13 at Ft. Hood in 2009, and the 6 in Tucson in 2011, and in 2012 the 12 in Aurora, Colorado, the 6 at the Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin, and the 2 at the shopping mall in Oregon.

In the aftermath of the 26 children and adults killed at a Connecticut elementary school, people are asking, “When is enough, enough? Can we talk?”

The killings happen in our schools, hospitals, houses of worship, and shopping malls. No place is safe.

And we are fortunate more have not been slain. Indeed, on the same day as the Connecticut massacre, an 18 year old Bartlesville, Oklahoma man was arrested for allegedly attempting to lure students at his high school into the auditorium where he planned to chain the doors shut and start shooting. On the day after the Connecticut murders, a man opened fire at a hospital in Birmingham, Alabama, wounding a police officer and two others before being killed by another police officer. That same weekend, a man fired 50 gun shots in the parking lot of a crowded Newport Beach, California shopping mall, while in Indiana a man who owns 47 guns was arrested for allegedly threatening to kill as many people as he could at a public school.

This is not a rural problem or a city problem: It’s everyone’s problem. Tom Mauser, whose 15 year old son was killed at Columbine High School in 1999, spoke last July of his futile efforts as an activist against such violence. “There was a time when I felt a certain guilt,” he said. “I’d ask, ‘Why can’t I do more about this? Why haven’t I dedicated myself more to it?’ But I’ll be damned if I’m going to put it all on my shoulders. This is all our problem.”

He’s right: It’s our problem. And we must address it.

Violence seems to be woven into the fabric of our culture: From video games to movies, we ingest a steady, daily diet of it. But political and cultural commentator, David Brooks, speaking on “Meet the Press,” cited studies showing that the perpetrators of these mass killings don’t seem to be spurred by violent video games or films. “It’s a psychological problem, not a sociological one,” Brooks said.

Why these tragic events are frequently a part of the public scene is no mystery: It’s a matter of statistics. There are some 300 million firearms in the US. Consider that $1.6 billion has been cut from state mental health budgets, which includes budgets for mental health services. Those numbers equate to a simple formula: The less help available to mentally troubled people, multiplied by the availability of guns, including assault weapons with high capacity magazines, equals the proliferation of horrific events like the ones we have been witnessing. It’s inevitable.

The objection that even under the best of circumstances, with proper background checks on purchased weapons and mental health care more available, what happened in Connecticut and other places still could have happened, may be true but should not deter us from enforcing more effective regulations that help safeguard the public by trying to keep weapons out of the hands of those who are mentally incapable of properly and sensibly handling them.

The conversation won’t be easy, but it’s necessary, because violence has and always will be an ever present reality and therefore must be checked.

In the meantime, let us pause and pray, weeping with those who weep, comforting the brokenhearted, protecting the innocent, and looking with hope to the Healer, whose birthday we celebrate December 25.

And as we do, remember what Fred Rogers’ mother would tell him when he saw frightening things in the news. “Look for the helpers,” she would say. “You will always find people who are helping.”

Let’s be those helpers as we sit down together. We need to talk.

Making a list and checking it for a...surprise

Surprising someone with just the right gift is a risky business, even if you think you know the person well.

I chuckle every time I think of that cartoon of the husband standing outside his bedroom door in his pajamas, wearing some ridiculous looking bunny rabbit slippers, trying to coax his wife out, pleading repentantly, “Mildred, I’m sorry. I really do like my bunny rabbit slippers.”

We've all received one of “those” gifts.  What to do with them? “I just knew you would love it,” your distant aunt or cousin or work-related acquaintance tells you. And you stare at it, wondering what it is and what they were thinking when they bought it. And you ask yourself if you've been the victim of regifting. 

I rummaged in the back of my closet and came upon some regift relics. There’s the wind chimes (I’m a light sleeper, need I say more?), the industrial size silver bells (as soon as I buy a Clydesdale, I’ll use them), an entire flock of ceramic birds (enough to block out the sun if only I could bring them to life and set them free), and last but not least, the Cross pen and pencil sets (Yes, sets, plural, circa 1999, leaving me to wonder how many times they've been passed along.)

Unfortunately, now that I've shared my closet of suspected regifts, I won’t be able to pass them on.

I’m a believer in a list. That practice started with me when I was a child. It was a beautiful moment when one of my list items showed up under the tree. When I was in 4^th grade I asked for PF Flyers. Mom and Dad bought them, I’m sure, but my older brother Mark had his name on the card. “You can really run fast in these, Merry Christmas,” I think his card said. I raced across the street to show Kim Parrish my prized possession. Occasionally I remind Mark he’ll never top the PF Flyer gift.

The key is giving what someone truly wants rather than what we think they need.

The Wall Street Journal recently reported on a study by the Journal of Experiential Psychology that maintains people are more appreciative when they receive a gift they have requested. “It turns out it’s not the thought that counts, it’s the gift that counts,” observed Nicholas Epley, professor of behavioral science at the University of Chicago and one of the authors of the study.

That makes perfect sense: Friends ask what you want for Christmas; then they actually get that instead of some off-the-wall item they thought you needed. And you are so happy they gave you the warm pair of house slippers you requested rather than a leprechaun candy container.

But then again, there are those ever so rare occasions when The Surprise is exactly what we need, even though we don’t realize it at the time.

On my birthday Lori surprised me with some new headphones for my computer. At first I didn’t like them simply because she had broken the sacred no surprise rule. “How much did you pay for these?” I growled, trying to remind her in a not-so-subtle fashion that she had violated the no surprise rule.

Maybe I’m a lousy grumbler---or maybe she’s a better ignorer---because she merrily shared the discounted Groupon price for the headphones.

I had to admit, it was an excellent gift.

But I still try to maintain the no surprise rule. Venturing outside it can be dangerous.

“Now remember, no surprises this Christmas,” I reminded Lori as I bookmarked my wish list on my laptop and forwarded it to her. “Stay on the list.”

“Sure, I’ve got it.” I thought she acquiesced.

But something in the tone of her voice signaled suspicion in my mind: Something about that phrase, “ I've got it,” raised an eyebrow.

As I whirled around to face her, my hunch was confirmed: She was smiling, and I could see what she was thinking; she had him in her eyes again, shining as brightly as the noon day sun: it was the Baby--- THAT ONE AND ONLY BABY--- the one born at an unexpected time in an unexpected place to an unsuspecting people.

And I had to smile back, thankful for those occasional surprises that meet our deepest need.

And make Christmas, Christmas.

Tell me another story, Mr. Lincoln

I wonder what Abe Lincoln would think about all the fuss with Steven Spielberg’s epic movie, “Lincoln.”

I can hear a reporter asking the ghost of Mr. Lincoln, “Did you ever think your popularity would soar even beyond its already lofty heights? And, how does this development affect your assessment of your own place in history?”

I can see Lincoln smiling wryly as he whirls a swivel chair around, straddles it, and leaning over its back, says in a high pitched, piercing drawl, “Well, it reminds me of the story about the backwoods preacher in Hardin County, Kentucky, back in 1850. Seems his church voted him the most humble pastor in America, and they gave him a medal that said, ‘To the most humble pastor in America.’ Then they took it away from him on Sunday because he wore it.”

The reporter chuckles as Abe then makes his point: “I did what I believed was right in 1864, and I took the necessary steps to abolish slavery, and no movie’s popularity or movie critic’s predictions of Academy Awards will change my humble assessment of my strengths and weaknesses. I did what I did.”

In reality, Spielberg’s “Lincoln” is not only endearing; it’s enduring (and I’m not referring to its length: two and a half hours): It stays with you long after you've left the theater.  Spielberg brings Lincoln to life like no film about the 16^th President has done. But the movie is not about Lincoln’s life. Rather, Spielberg narrows the time to the beginning of Lincoln’s second term, specifically, the fall of 1864 to January 1865, when the war was coming to an end, and Lincoln wanted to assure the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment, which would make slavery unconstitutional. The movie’s drama revolves around what Lincoln does to get the necessary votes in the House of Representatives for the amendment’s passage.

Much of Lincoln’s genius, in addition to his political acumen---he could cajole, he could coerce; he could stand firm, he could be flexible; he could demure, he could demand---was his ability to make a point with a story, endearing himself to both supporters and opponents. He was a master of the anecdote. Through it all, he was resolute in achieving his goal: the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment.

People sometimes had trouble understanding why he used so many stories. There is a splendid scene in “Lincoln,” where Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton (Bruce McGill) has lost patience with Lincoln’s penchant for spinning a yarn: “No, you’re not going to tell a story. I can’t bear to hear one,” Stanton bellows as he storms out of the room.

Lincoln slowly smiles and proceeds to tell another story.

Now let’s return to that imaginary reporter as he walks alongside Lincoln outside the cinema after a late night showing of Spielberg’s “Lincoln.” The reporter presses the President: “Political pundits each have their ‘take-away’ from this movie. What’s yours, Mr. Lincoln?”

Lincoln stops, pauses, turns to the reporter, stares him the eyes, and you guessed it, tells another story.

“It happened five years before my death,” he begins, “in the fall of 1860. The steamship, ‘Lady Elgin,’ was en route from Chicago to Milwaukee when a lumber schooner rammed her, sinking the ship, accidently killing 279 passengers and crew members. It seems a student at Northwestern University, a young man by the name of Edward Spence, made 16 trips from the shore to the sinking ship, saving 17 lives. The young man suffered from shock, and as they carried him to the hospital---and by the way, as a result of his heroics he would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, not one of the 17 he saved ever returning to thank him---he kept asking a question, kept asking over and over, ‘Did I do my best?’”

The puzzled, slack jawed reporter looks up to Mr. Lincoln, “Are you saying that you did your best to preserve the union, or are you questioning if we the people have done our best for this nation and the cause of liberty for all---regardless of race, religion, or sexual orientation?”

With a twinkle in his eye, a satisfied smile breaks across Lincoln’s wrinkled face as he stares above the reporter, gazing at the stars.

And we know the answer to the question lies in yet another story.

Just another manic Thursday

My, oh my, no time for sweet potato pie this Thanksgiving. We've got to rush out and catch the sales at Walmart, Toys R Us, and Sears by 8 p.m., Target by 9 p.m., then Macy’s, Kohl’s, and Best Buy at midnight. And oh yes, thank you Kmart for that breather between 4 p.m. and 8 p.m., Thanksgiving Day, giving us just enough time to scarf down the turkey and dressing before full-throttling ahead on our shopping tour  until 11 p.m. Friday.

The inevitable has happened: Black Friday has invaded Turkey Thursday.

Granted, retailers have legitimate reasons for extending their hours to Thursday. “Holiday shopping can be very stressful,” says Meijer chief operating officer, J.K. Symancyk. “By offering our special deals beginning at 6 a.m. on both Thanksgiving and Black Friday, our customers won’t have to worry about waking up in the middle of the night to stand in line and can choose how early or late they want to shop for the hottest holiday gifts.” Meijer has traditionally been open on Thanksgiving Day.

To entice people to their stores on Thanksgiving, Toys R Us is offering the first 200 customers at each location a free “Great Big Goody Bag” filled with stocking-stuffers valued at $30. Store executive Troy Rice says shoppers can have dinner and then shop. “We all know everybody gets burned out on turkey and football.” Rice expects to have lines from 500 to more than 1,000 people by the time the doors open.

Extending shopping hours to Thursday will make it easier for shoppers to grab the bargains; and it will be a boost for retailers.

But not everyone is on board.

Some Target employees, led by Casey St. Clair, have petitioned the company to save Thanksgiving Day from Black Friday creep. But wait, don’t other people, like hospital and health care employees, have to work on Thanksgiving Day? “Retail is not a necessary service that needs to be open,” St. Clair reminds us.

St. Clair is joined by another Target employee, Jennifer Ann, who is also calling on Target to save Thanksgiving from becoming Black Thursday. “Family has always been important to me and Thanksgiving is all about family,” she wrote to Target. “I love seeing family that we haven’t seen in years and spending time with each other on the only day when we can all get together. Last year it became clear to me that for some large retailers, this holiday isn't about family or being grateful at all”

And Charlotte Hill, communications manager at Change.org, which bills itself at the world’s petition site, wrote in an email to Upstart Business Journal, “Employees want to spend the holiday with family, and consumers don’t want to have to rush out the door on Thanksgiving in order to get the hottest deals.”

Is Thanksgiving Day, like Sundays, becoming just another day to do business? If so, it becomes no more than another day to buy and sell, shop and trade. And of course, that’s just another work day.

Maybe you feel like my friend who admits she will go shopping Thanksgiving evening, although she wishes the stores would stay closed so she wouldn't be drawn there for the best deals. We are, after all, naturally inclined to take the easiest, fastest path possible to purchase items for the lowest price and best value. 

But are we paying another price besides the one on the sale item? I think of the 80s song with the words, “I wish it was Sunday/’Cause that’s my funday/My I don’t have to runday/It’s just another manic Monday.”

So, are we letting let Thanksgiving Day become just another manic Thursday?

That depends on our choice, does it not?

We are not forced to be first in line for the best bargain. Ask yourself what you have to give up for that early bird special. Time with family? Taking a rare nap after an early afternoon dinner? Perhaps an evening movie with someone you love?

Maybe going shopping Thursday night will prove to be an excellent way of sharing family values and saying thanks. Perhaps it will do you good to skip the desert, get off the couch, and head to the mall.

If not, I hope you will stay home. How often do you get to make a social statement by sitting in your easy chair and enjoying a second helping of turkey? Successful retailers are smart; they won’t stay open without customers.

As for me: My, oh my, I see some sweet potato pie! I’m heading to the kitchen before I take my annual Thanksgiving Day snooze.

Grace-Givers Anonymous?

I’m thinking about starting a non-profit organization for all the people who perform acts of kindness and don’t want to be thanked for doing them. Maybe I’ll name it, “Grace-Givers Anonymous.”

I could set up a website, www.gracegivers.org, where people like you could donate to this non-profit. Billboards promoting deliberate acts of kindness could be set up. Together we could run TV commercials for the cause. Communities would be encouraged to start a Grace-Giver Anonymous program in their area. And every year, we could have an annual convention where the grace-givers could meet one another, and those they’ve helped could meet and thank their grace-giver. We could even establish an annual Grace-Giver Anonymous of the Year Award.

Okay, maybe it is a crazy idea.

But what is incredibly sane is what these people---call them grace-givers, kindness-distributors, gratitude-sharers---do by helping others.

What motivates them to do it? As far as I can tell, nothing more than the decision to be kind and compassionate.

Recipients of their kindness usually feel a bit humbled by their generosity.

Just ask my dad. I called him the other morning, as I do most every morning, to find out how he’s doing. “Great,” he said with excitement in his voice. “You won’t believe what happened yesterday.”

I sensed a story coming on.

“Your mom and I went with Mark and Joy (my brother and sister-in-law) to eat at the Olive Garden. When we asked for the bill, the waiter told us someone had already paid for all four of us. The waiter gave me a card that said, ‘Thanks for serving. God bless you.’ When I asked where the people were who paid for our meal, the waiter said they’d already left.”

Dad went on to explain that he had been wearing his “WWII  Korea Veteran” cap.

“They saw that I was a veteran and wanted to thank me,” Dad said with a tone of humility.

Much more important than receiving the free meal was the act of being thanked for serving.

Whoever paid for the meal had a plan. They had cards printed that expressed their gratitude. Then they looked for veterans and followed through with specific acts of kindness.

They didn’t hang around to be thanked, either.

It reminded me of something I received in the mail the other day. It was a small package with no return address. I curiously opened it and found---lo and behold, my long-lost Day-Timer. Inside was a note, “Found in U-Haul at Centerville, Al.”

Back in August we had moved our son, Dave, to Starkville, Mississippi, where he is in graduate school at Mississippi State University. I got everything out of the U-Haul except my Day-Timer. Not only did I have important future events noted in it, but I had my laminated Thomas Merton prayer in there, as well as a few Scriptures. I missed my Day-Timer, and had long ago given up on ever seeing it again. Who would care, even though I had written my return address inside it?

Whoever mailed it to me had to buy the mailing package, address it, pay postage, and mail it. That didn't take a lot of time, but it would have been much easier to have left it in the U-Haul, as others had apparently done.

So again, what motivates this unique breed of people, these grace-givers, to do what they do?

Did that person read the Scriptures in my Day-Timer and think that whoever owns it must be some kind of spiritual person and for that reason returned it? Did the person who bought Dad’s meal have a son or daughter, brother, sister, or parent who died in the military and for that reason felt compelled to buy a meal for a veteran?

Who can know?

And really, does it matter?

These kind souls are just that: people who express their feelings of compassion with specific actions. Not wanting to be recognized, they anonymously spread kindness through our world, which makes their exploits all the more admirable.

Whatever their exact motivation, they inspire others to do the same, to perform the little deeds during the day that go unnoticed by most everyone but the recipients of those who receive them.

And they make the world a better place.

But that really scuttles my plan for a non-profit. No, a non-profit for these folks is exactly what they wouldn't want. Even if I received the funding for the project, put up the billboards, ran the commercials, and rented a convention hall---who would come?

The anonymous grace-givers would be smiling outside, in the streets somewhere, moving incognito among the crowds, spreading acts of kindness to those who need them. 

Me and My Old Car

This year between 30 and 40 million Americans will sell a used car. I’m one of them; I just parted with my old car.

I bought the 1996 T-Bird mainly out of desperation; Lori and I had grown weary of car-pooling in our one vehicle. She would need to go home when I had the car somewhere else; I had to have it when she was on an errand. We felt like the frustrated cab driver who is supposed to take two passengers in different directions at the same time.

And so I came into the possession of the T-Bird, proud of the fact that I had found what I believed was a decent enough bargain on a vehicle that was at that point in its lifespan, primarily equipped to get its driver (me) from point A to point B.

I rather proudly drove it into our drive way, honked the horn, and waited for the fam to join me in exultation at the sight my new purchase. Instead, after running to see what the commotion was all about, they stopped cold in their tracks and began cautiously encircling the T-Bird like children on a field trip who have been told not to touch an ancient artifact for fear that it might self destruct.

No one wanted to go for a drive in my old car. “What if someone sees us?” they asked, almost in unison.

A few moments later it was just me and my old car. I patted the hood: “It’s okay, buddy,” I whispered, glancing around to make sure no one could hear me. “They just don’t know what you've got on the inside.”

Admittedly, my old car badly needed a face lift  The paint on its right front looked like flowing lava melting down the side of a mountain. And its faded paint gave it an old and worn out look.

My old car did have a chronic creaking problem, too. Sometimes---usually when I drove up when a group of people were standing around---it acted up, like the crowd had made it nervous, causing it to have a croaking fit. It creaked when I sat down in the driver’s seat, when I turned the wheel, or when I had a thought of any kind. People could hear me coming a block before I got there.

But my old car did give me some advantages. I never had to worry about where I parked; it didn't much matter if someone dinged my door. And there’s something about driving an old car that evokes sympathy from some people. “Well preacher,” a lady commented to me in the church parking lot as she stared at my old car, “I can tell you’re not in it for the money.” 

“I’d be doing a lousy job if I were,” I thought to myself.

Another lady studied my old car and asked, “Now, how many kids do you have in college?” 

Once a man followed me out of the grocery store, pontificating about the evil state of political affairs in our on-the-road-to-hell country, preaching to me about why his brand of religion was the best bet to save us from it all, when my old car came to my rescue. “You drive that?” he incredulously asked. “ Doesn't your church pay you?” he continued, slowly pushing his shopping cart away from me as if someone who drove an old car like mine wasn't a worthy recipient of his wisdom.

 I winked at my old car, patting it on its back hip in gratitude as I put my groceries in the trunk.

In a humanely absurd way, (how can you have feelings for a hunk of metal?) I felt sorry for my old car. When I offered to help my daughter come home from college for the summer, she asked if I would bring Lori’s car. “My friends might think we’re really poor if you come in yours,” she said in a hushed tone.

“My old car never gets to go anywhere exciting,” I thought to myself.

I sold my old car yesterday to someone who could rehabilitate it. It’s been close to intensive care as of late.

As I drove away in my new car, I realized my old car had done more than simply get me from point A to point B.

My old car had been my faithful companion to all points in between.

How to Make a Difference on November 6

With every flyer I placed on the doorknob, I felt a surge of energy: I was actually making a difference, and for an 11 year old kid, that’s a big deal. I had taken Judge Loys Criswell’s request to help him in his reelection campaign for Associate District Judge of Jackson County, Oklahoma as seriously as if I had been asked to be the campaign manager for the President of the United States. And when mom knocked on my bedroom door, informing me that the Judge had won, I put down my comic book, glanced at the judge’s campaign poster hanging on my wall, swelled with pride, feeling like I had been a player in the world of politics.

Was that world a small one? Yes.

 Did I exaggerate my role in the venerable judge’s reelection campaign? Of course.

 Was I wrong to think I had actually made a difference? Absolutely not.

Perhaps the false belief that when it comes to the enormous arena of politics our involvement makes little or no difference is one of the reasons for low voter participation. (In the 2008 presidential election, 42% of eligible voters didn’t bother to vote.) That world of politics seems so big, and we in comparison, so little. Then when we read that the presidential candidates this year will spend a combined $2 billion to get elected, whatever contribution we can make seems miniscule. And what of our vote? Should we even bother to vote? Does it really matter, anyway? And even if we do vote, can it change anything, really?

Yes, yes, and yes! Your vote does matter, and you have the potential to initiate change by casting your ballot.

 Perhaps all the political wrangling has made us cynical; maybe we’ve heard so much negative campaigning that we simply want to cover our ears, mute the volume and hope it will all go away; or maybe we’ve grown lazy, mentally slack, willing to delegate our future to the decisions of others, for after all, we mistakenly assume, “You can’t change Washington anyway.”

I think of the story about the preacher who was aggravated about his congregation’s lack of participation in church activities. Turning to one of his trusted deacons, the pastor asked, “Is it ignorance or apathy?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” the deacon blandly responded.

Knowledge of the issues we face these next four years and the impact they will have on us and our children replaces ignorance and gives rise to action. If you think one vote doesn’t make any difference, ponder these facts complied by church historian, Leonard I. Sweet: In 1645,one vote gave Oliver Cromwell control of England; in 1649, one vote caused  Charles I of England to be executed; in 1845, one vote brought Texas into the Union; in 1868, one vote saved President Andrew Johnson from impeachment; in 1875 one vote changed France from a monarchy to a republic; in 1876, one vote gave Rutherford B. Hayes the presidency of the United States; in 1923, one vote gave Adolf Hitler leadership of the Nazi party; in 1941, one vote put the draft into effect; in 1960, one vote per precinct in four states gave John F. Kennedy the presidency of the United States.

This November 6 I’m going to drive to the polling place, get out of my car, thank the good Lord that people I don’t know fought and even died so I can freely walk into that voting booth with no military regime or religious group standing in my way, that I can vote for my candidate of choice without fear of losing my job or facing physical torture, and that the Lord has given me a mind capable of perceiving the issues as best as I can.

And having cast my vote, I’ll proudly place one of those little “I voted” stickers on my shirt, look to the heavens and wink at Judge Loys Criswell for reminding me that as small as I may appear to be, I can be a part of an exciting process that makes tremendous differences. 

Heaven for Real, I Believe

Thousands of people have related their stories of near death experiences (NDEs), perhaps the most popular in recent years being told by a pastor (Don Piper, 90 Minutes in Heaven, 2004), and by a child (Colton Burpo, Heaven is for Real, 2010), neither of which, though fascinating in their own right, is likely---given the occupation of the first and the age of the second--- to convince those skeptical of such experiences.

But now we encounter the NDEs of Dr. Mary C. Neal (To Heaven and Back: A Doctor’s Extraordinary Account of Her Death, Heaven, Angels, and Life Again, 2011) and Dr. Eben Alexander (Proof of Heaven, A Neurosurgeon’s Journey into the Afterlife, 2012). Neal is a spinal surgeon; Alexander is a neurosurgeon who has taught at Harvard Medical School and other universities. 

Neal drowned while on a trip to Chile; Alexander spent seven days in a coma after being infected with rare E. coli bacteria that penetrated his cerebrospinal fluid and shut down the part of his brain, the neocortex, which controls thought and emotions.

Neal’s account of her actual encounter with death and entrance into heaven is brief. Most of her book is about how the experience affected her life, particularly the manner in which it enabled her to cope with the tragic death of her son years after her NDE. Indeed, while in heaven Neal is told she must return to earth to help her family deal with that loss.

Although Neal was a professing Christian before her NDE (she relates instances when she believes God intervened in her life), at the time of her NDE she had relegated God to the back seat of her life. But all that changed after she drowned. As she approached a great hall in heaven, she felt her soul being pulled toward an entry as she was “physically absorbed” in radiance, “feeling the pure, complete, and utterly unconditional absolute love that emanated from the hall.” Now she wants others to see that it doesn't take a NDE like hers to see that events are not coincidental, that God has a plan for each of us, and that there really is life after death.

Alexander, whose book is to be released this week, describes his pre-NDE spiritual life as that of a “faithful Christian,” who was more so “in name than in actual belief.” His skepticism of NDEs changed after he emerged from his seven day coma: “That dimension---in rough outline, the same one described by countless subjects of near-death experiences and other mystical states---is there. It exists, and what I saw and learned there has placed me quite literally in a new world: a world where we are much more than our brains and bodies, and where death is not the end of consciousness but rather a chapter in a vast, and incalculably positive, journey.” Like Neal, Alexander was told in heaven that he would have to return to earth.

Because he didn't want his experience to be affected by prior research on NEDs, Alexander first detailed his own encounter with the afterlife before thoroughly studying the subject. Alexander is convinced that consciousness exists outside the brain, that the soul is not dependent on the brain, and that “the reductive materialistic model is inadequate to explain what we know about consciousness now.”

Both authors are passionate about sharing the reality they describe as heaven. Is it for real? Most definitely it is. But I say that with eyes of faith; I am a believer.

 It’s for that very reason that I’m also skeptical. While I hope for the best, I doubt that either book will change the mind of the entrenched atheist or seasoned skeptic. Already one scientist has challenged Alexander. “Even if I granted that his brain had been shut down — it’s not shut down now. And there is absolutely no way for him to establish (or even to subjectively know) that he didn’t have his experience as his brain was coming back online. End of debate, as far as I’m concerned,” said Dr. Sam Harris, in Skeptiko.com.

We shouldn't be surprised, should we? Didn't Jesus himself warn his listeners, ‘“If they won’t listen to Moses and the prophets, they won’t listen even if someone rises from the dead”’ (Luke 16:31)?

NDEs can be powerful pointers to another dimension, yet a dimension that in the final analysis must still be received by faith, a faith placed in the One who created that place, One who having risen from a real death experience, promised to return again so his followers can join him in that place.

That place is more real than this place.

After all, it’s heaven, I believe.

                   

Goodbye, Room

“I went back upstairs one more time and said ‘goodbye’ to my room. I’m ready to go now.”

Dave’s words were my signal: Cutting my eyes towards him as he walked to his car, I turned on the headlights in the early morning dawn, put the U-Haul in gear, and we all---Dave, Lori, Madi, and I--- headed south, caravan style.

He had already been away four years in college. But that was less than an hour away. Now, having spent the summer working and living at home, it was time for him to move on, nine hours away, to begin another phase of life. Moving away seemed more permanent this time.

“What did you say to your room?” I asked him, about 300 miles down the road, at the truck stop where we refueled.

His faint smile of resignation required no explanation; I understood, for I’ve said “goodbye” to many a room along life’s way. When we say “goodbye,” we face ourselves, at least the self we think we knew for that chapter of life---and we filter the changes through the lens of time as we exit one room and step onto the next road of the journey.

Months later, back home, I’m driving to visit a friend. Turning down the street, I hear the bark of an auctioneer in front of a house.

In the front lawn of the auctioned house an older couple, maybe in their late 70s,  stand sadly---or so it appears---watching with tired eyes as the whole thing transpires: people bidding for items once treasured by a family, now on the auction block---going, going, gone. And the tall man with slumped shoulders wearing overalls stares at the auctioneer like he is an executioner, while his wife in a simple cotton skirt stares at the ground.

Where are they moving? Where have they been? And have they told their rooms, “goodbye”?

Having arrived at my friend’s home, I notice on the wall a painting of an old house. I immediately recognize it because I drive by it every day. Unaware of its history, I feel like an ignorant tourist unknowingly trampling on sacred ground. It was a beautiful ante-bellum home, built in the late 1850s. Having past through several owners, it ended up in her family. After she had grown up in it, the home was auctioned in 1977. Now, the once stately, proud historical home is dilapidated, covered in trees and vines. Where once there were rooms filled with laughter and life there is now only silence and decay.

Her face brightens at my interest. “Momma took a picture of each room before it was sold.” Now my friend shows me her old home in photographs. One picture shows plates hanging on the kitchen wall. They are painted with the faces of the children; the grandchildren are painted on saucers. “Momma painted each one herself,” my friend informs me.

I wondered if each child said “goodbye” to those rooms before the house went empty, auctioned away. And did those grandchildren know what those rooms meant?

What do rooms mean, anyway?

They carry meaning because a part of us still resides in those rooms, even after the house has been bought, sold, resold, and finally lies in ruins. We enter and reenter parts of ourselves in each one of those rooms, for they carry a piece of our life puzzle, fitting us together, giving us clues of who we are today: They encompass a part of our life---our hurts, our joys, our victories, and our defeats. We can say goodbye to them; we can move beyond them; but they go with us, because part of us happened there.

Maybe you carry it in photographs, but finally, you carry it in your heart---that room where you watched TV,  that room where you ate at that kitchen table, that room where you could be alone, that room where you rocked the baby.  It’s a room that formed your yesterday, shapes your today, and touches your tomorrows.

You can say “goodbye” to it, but it’s never gone. Not completely. It’s still a part of the emotional luggage you carry out the door.

Indeed it is.

Or you wouldn't have bothered to walk back up the stairs.

You wouldn’t have opened the door one last time and said, “Goodbye, room.”